


Never Am

by pluckybucky



Series: Another Time, Another World [1]
Category: Doom Patrol (Comics), Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Emo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 15:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18471934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluckybucky/pseuds/pluckybucky
Summary: Rebis contemplates Cliff Steele, and Larry Trainor doesn't exist anymore.





	Never Am

Bandaged hands clasp around the doll nested within another with such tenderness, fingertips grazing the delicately painted features, the rosy cheeks wrapped within a painted sarafan, the mother to all nested in her, all versions of herself with the same painted smile, all different, yet unchanging. As Rebis places the doll back onto the dusty shelf, the bottom of the doll clicking against the material of said shelf, their face turns back towards the open door, yellowed fluorescent lights digging into the darkness of Rebis’ office harshly, white pushing blue into a corner, the sneering lights pale in comparison to the artificial pupils cast in Rebis’ direction, the sound of leather shifting about as Cliff folds his arms over his chest. 

 

“Larry, are you done in here?” The gruff voice asks, “You’ve done nothing but stare at all this junk,” Cliff gestures to the room comparable to a hoarder’s den, useless junk thrown about at every corner, yet each so-called junk holding some piece of fondness.

 

Rebis turns around to face Cliff, unchanging faces on one another. As Rebis shoves their hands into their coat pockets, they contemplate Cliff’s question. The name, Larry, Lawrence Trainor, rings hollow in Rebis, a name that isn’t theirs, yet has been stapled to them like a dirty word, an accusation. The name on Cliff’s tone reads as something antagonizing, forcing the name onto Rebis, an endeavor to take Rebis like a slab of clay, to shape them into the form Cliff yearns for. Memories of Larry Trainor reveal each glance, every stare from the robotic husk, face unchanging yet conveying the words he could never say, memories of a person Rebis isn’t, and maybe never was.

 

So, when the name echoes through Rebis’ room, Rebis stares through purple lenses reflecting Cliff’s stare back at him. “I am not Larry,” Is all they say, shoulders slacked. 

 

Cliff blinks, metal against metal giving a gentle click. “Whatever you say. Now, you getting out of here or what?” 

 

There’s some amount of fear, or some kind of it in Cliff’s voice. The deflection, as broad as daylight, echoes through the room, and out into the empty halls. Rebis’ brow furrows under the mask. “Why don’t you believe me,” Rebis asks, and Cliff tenses up. 

 

“What?” Cliff sputters.

 

“Why don’t you believe me when I say I am not Larry Trainor,” Rebis repeats, voice a little louder.

 

An awkward pause fills the room before Cliff’s able to give a valid response. Arms unfolded, Cliff gestures to Rebis’ figure. “You look like him, Hell, you sound like him,” His jaw slacks a bit more open, “At least, you sometimes sound like him. Other times you sound like two people at once. To me, you are Larry,”

 

Rebis takes a hand out of their pocket to scratch their chin. “I see,” They mumble. As they look into Cliff’s face, they see every glance, every stare he gave to Larry Trainor, and they see the resentment at the truth he’ll never admit. They glare right back at Cliff, not a slab of clay to be beaten in a shape they can’t fill. “Why,” They say, hand resting on the desk stationed behind them, fingertips threatening to graze framed photos left on their fronts, “Why does this scare you so much?” 

 

Cliff’s back to his usual attitude, chest puffed out, “Now I have no idea what the Hell you’re talking about,”

 

“Why does the possibility of me not being Larry Trainor terrify you this much?”

 

Cliff appears almost offended by the accusation. He scoffs. “I’m not terrified,” He responds, “I just-”

 

Rebis cuts him off with a tone rare in their throat, a voice all too familiar to Cliff that makes everything hurt a little more, “You believe that this is simply a phase, that I will wake up and be Larry Trainor again, because you,” Walking towards Cliff, heeled boots click against the tile floor at a slow crawl, “You cannot accept that you have lost your chance. You desire so badly for me to be him, for you to coddle, to hold, because you never got to do that when he still existed, and you are terrified to accept that you lost him,”

 

Coat sways behind Rebis with a cool purple that slowly transforms into a brilliant magenta, then to a deep red, behind the glasses, two vacant eyes simply glare, staring into the brash red of Cliff’s fake eyes. 

 

Rebis stops as they come face to face with Cliff, too close for comfort, close enough to relay their point. “He was never yours, you cannot make me yours, and I am not Larry Trainor. “ 

 

A vacant place where a heart should be doesn’t stop the empty feeling within Cliff’s chest, he blinks, jaw slacked completely open, the venom from the snakes biting into his forgotten flesh sinking deep, deep, deeper. Rebis is dominant, a predator face to face with their prey, and Cliff is left speechless. 

 

Without a second to spare, Cliff leaves, boots crushing against the ground in denial, leaving Rebis, leaving the opportunity to come face to face with something entirely new, not Larry, but something, someone different.

 

Rebis doesn’t seek Cliff out, they turn back around, into the darkness of their office, the matryoshka doll is soon taken apart, bit by bit, till the beginning, and all of it’s children are set next to each other on the dusty shelf, from largest to smallest, each with identical smiles, the photo frame on the desk now propped back up, a name printed onto a helmet, a name that Rebis can’t stop thinking about.

 

There’s a vault in Rebis’ mindspace, a wasteland of thoughts, dreams, memories and voices, leftovers from a different time. Rebis takes one of these leftovers, a box never opened, crumbled and decayed, yet still existing, and they see through Larry’s eyes, glasses now rounded goggles, tie replaced with a tight turtleneck, lips unable to move as Larry Trainor looks up at the figure looking back at him. The box isn’t holding the memory, but the words unable to be said. 

 

As they hold the box tenderly, they parrot Larry Trainor’s voice. “I love you, Cliff Steele,” The box tells them, and they repeat, “I love you,” A declaration hollow now, but in another time, meaning everything.

 

Two men, both unable to confess their infatuation with each other, one man, left without ever getting the chance.

 

And now, back in the office, Rebis clings to the doll as they put it back together, each piece devouring the other whole, the revelation of Larry Trainor reciprocating Cliff’s feelings trapped in Rebis’ mind, eager to dig it’s way out of their throat.

 

In another time, after this point, Cliff and Rebis do not interact. Cliff doesn’t look, doesn’t seem to even realize Rebis’ presence when they are out of their room. In any other time, Rebis would walk through the manor as any other member, but in this moment, they ghost through the halls. Days pass, nights pass, and nothing happens.

 

In this particular time, Rebis notices Rita, pinky finger perked up as she lifts a cup of tea to her lips, sitting close to a window, sun shining brightly on her face. Rebis isn’t too sure if she has accepted this change yet, either. 

 

“Hello, Rita,” Rebis says, voice warm as they ghost into the brightly lit room.

 

Rita quickly lowers the cup, swallowing as she turns to Rebis. “Ah, hello, Rebis, good to see you,” She responds kindly, a tone that makes some part of Rebis feel welcomed, loved, even.

 

“May I sit with you?” Rebis asks, gesturing to the empty seat left at the table Rita sits at.

 

“Oh,” Rita sounds, offering the seat to them, “Of course, of course,” 

 

And so, Rebis drifts towards Rita, taking a seat across from her without a second thought, the sun shining on their face, seeping through the bandages. They lace their fingers together, resting their hands on the round table, shoulders slacking with a breath.

 

“How are you doing,” Rita says, about to say something else, but able to catch herself before she can, “Rebis? Things seem awfully tense around here,” 

 

Rebis pauses, shifting their jaw. “I don’t quite know, anymore, Rita. I was hoping you could help me,”

 

Rita offers a concerned glance, brow furrowed, “It’s not like you to come out of your room looking for help. What’s wrong, dear?” 

 

“I,” Rebis begins, “I remember everything Larry Trainor ever did, his wants, wishes, everything, but I can’t understand,” They lean forward, closer to Rita and voice quieter, “Why couldn’t Larry tell Cliff how he felt?” 

 

Rita’s lips part. “I see.”

 

Rebis continues, “For years, decades, even, he allowed his turmoil to fester and grow, and even after feeling loved, and accepted, he could never tell Cliff how he felt.” 

 

There’s a gentle sigh. “Larry is,” She pauses, swallowing, “Was, very troubled. To be honest, he was not very good at hiding his feelings. I never talked to him about it, but I knew, I think we all knew, except for Cliff. A real shame.” 

 

Rebis makes a strange kind of sound. “I can’t understand it. Everything was in his favor, yet he never reached out, never could come face to face with his fascination, and I don’t know why I can’t understand it. I think it hurts, and I can’t stop it.”

 

A frantic voice, rare for Rebis, surprises Rita, kind hands reach out to take Rebis’ hands. “You do not need to understand it, Rebis. You are feeling his pain, and you shouldn’t be tearing yourself up for answers as to why things happened the way they did. Some things just happen. Sometimes, you accidentally shatter a glass, sometimes we can’t admit our feelings, and sometimes we lose close friends.” Rebis notices the glossy look in Rita’s eyes. “It’s not our jobs to find out some secret truth, on why something happened, we just need to accept it. Larry couldn’t speak his mind, and that’s something we have to deal with, Cliff especially.” 

 

Rebis sighs loudly, hanging their head low. “I don’t want to feel his hurt, Rita. I don’t want to feel this way.”

 

Rita squeezes Rebis’ hands. “Do you love Cliff?” She asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Rebis responds. “Larry Trainor did, and there’s some part of Larry Trainor in me. How can I love somebody I don’t know personally, but know everything about him like the back of my hand.” 

 

Rita smiles. “Feelings are complicated, aren’t they?”

 

“Yeah,” Rebis replies. 

 

And so, they keep talking, the sun continues shining, and life goes on.

 

In another time, a man sings to himself as he tends to his indoor garden, and in this time, Rebis stands in the graveyard of this garden, everything untouched, every plant decayed.

 

In another time, Rebis remembers laying on a bed too small, hand on their heart, another person living in them, but the person on the bed was never Rebis.

 

In another time, and another place, both nonexistent and all too real, Larry Trainor shares a cup of tea with Dr. Eleanor Poole under a tree, Larry is free of the bandages, wearing something he would’ve worn a long, long time ago, and Eleanor shares an interesting story about a patient that makes Larry laugh, a smile that Cliff Steele never got to witness. 

 

But, those are events that don’t matter anymore, Rebis exists in this time, and in this time, after Rita and Rebis speak, thunderclouds roar as they blanket Doom Manor. Rebis watches the raindrops begin to fall, running against the glass windows they stare out of. There’s an empty easel, now stained by the rain water and paint marks, there’s a tree shaking in response to the storm’s calls, and Cliff Steele is standing outside.

 

When Rebis reaches the outside world, shutting the door behind them and shoving their hands into their pockets.

 

“Cliff,” They exhale, walks across the patio and into the open, allowing the rain to stain them as well. Cliff doesn’t respond, only grunting.

 

Rebis stands side by side with Cliff in the middle of the rain, no questions, no accusations, nothing, simply being there with him in that moment.

 

“I’m sorry,” Cliff finally says. “Sorry for calling you Larry. I know how much being called something you aren’t sucks.” Cliff sighs without lungs. “I miss him. He was my friend, y’know?” 

 

“I know.” Rebis says.

 

Their clothes are soaked, and the raindrops never stop, and for a moment, everyone is watching out of their window. 

 

“Cliff,” Rebis eventually says. 

 

“Yeah?” Cliff responds.

 

“Larry does,” They pause. For some strange reason, they’re choked up. “ _Did_ love you.” 

 

There isn’t a response. Cliff lowers his head, unable to cry, unable to scream, unable to do anything but stand in the rain with the gentle reminder of what he was unable to do.

 

Rebis takes Cliff’s hand, big and cold in their grasp. “Come out of the rain, Cliff.”

 

“Okay, Rebis,” Is all Cliff is able to say.

 

Something is lifted from Rebis, an anchor around their chest, and a voice.

 

“Thank you,” Larry Trainor says, unable to exist, and so he ceases to be.


End file.
